


not so deep as a well.

by Quietbang



Series: a forgotten revolution [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Disability, Gen, Healing, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about scars, is that they heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not so deep as a well.

_I_

It is is far too small to have done so much damage.

A small, round pucker of flesh no bigger than a thumbnail.

He remembers this from his childhood; the love story that was not a love story, the tragedy that was not a tragedy- _'tis not so big as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, t'will serve.'_ \- but he had never thought he would encounter it so viscerally.

Someday, he will be able to look in the mirror and not see Erik.

Someday, he will be able to look at the chair and not see betrayal.

Someday, he will be able to look at himself and not see weakness.

For now, though, he is alone in a hospital bed, blinds drawn against the enroaching sunlight, and he weeps.

_II_

They come in every day and torture him. At least, that's what it seems like.  
He comes to know the pain intimately, it and its brothers of anger and sorrow becoming his constant companion.

He reminds himself on a daily basis to be grateful for the pain.

His legs do not hurt at all.

He remembers that the fiery, burning sensation in his back is a blessing, that that is the line of demarcation between strength and weakness, between love and hate- that as long as it hurts, he can still _feel_.

Sometimes, he does not want to feel anymore.

Sometimes, he forgets.

_III_

He has been out of the hospital for a week- a week, and his hands are red and burning with blood and calluses- when he falls out of his chair for the first time.

They had warned him about spasms, but it still seems like a bad joke- that it can hurt so much, that there can be so much _movement_ in limbs that, by all rights, should not move at all.

It isn't right, it isn't fair, he has only ever tried to _help_ people. What did he do to deserve this?  
Is it revenge, after all, for some forgotten slight?

Then Hank arrives to help him up, and he forgets the metaphysics in order to deal with the more immediate shame and indignity that faces him. Hank readjusts the clear plastic that straps to his leg and drains him of his dignity, and Charles pretends not to notice.

He does not cry. He smiles instead, and does not feel bad when he realises that that unsettles Hank more than crying would have.

_III_

That day, he begins training. He is shocked to realise that it is April already- that the winter has passed and that the world has not stopped.

He can hear the alarm in Alex's thoughts when he finds him in the gym, hears him begin to form something- a rebuke, perhaps, or caring sympathy that cuts like a wound- and so flashes Alex his most dangerous look.

Alex looks shocked, and then offers to be his spotter.

Charles assents.

There is a war coming, and much as he wishes it will not come to pass, he knows that though he does not consider it one, Erik and Rav- _Mystique_ do, and that that is what matters.  
He learned his trade in a guerrilla war, after all, and he has not forgotten it.

_IV_

Cerebro is complete in time for the school year to begin, and the stress and chaos of a school full of mutant children and a staff of teachers hardly out of it themselves is so great that he forgets to be bitter.

His arms have grown, as have his shoulders, broad and strong. He trains every day, physically and telapthically- it has been months since he has requires assistance to transfer from his chair, to shower, to drain his urine bag, and sometimes it hurts to realise how novel it has become to be able to perform these simple tasks of daily living for himself.

Sometimes it hurts to hear the thoughts of others, the caring parents of those lucky children who still had them, who believed that he could not possibly harm anyone- after all, he is just a helpless cripple.

They pity him, and he wants to snap that he could strike them down where they stand, make it so that they had never existed in the minds of anyuone but theselves- but he does not.

Instead, he grits his teeth, and uses it to his advantage.

He is accustomed, after all, to being underestimated.

_V_

By the time he sees Erik again, it has been one year and eight months to the day.

It is as though he has dropped off the face of the earth.

Magneto is in the papers almost daily, and his x-men have encountered him several times- but of Erik Lehnsherr, no-one speaks.

It is as though he has died, died years ago, perhaps, just one of the faceless nameless casualties of hatred and the Polish winter.

When he arrives, he is wearing the helmet. Charles suppresses a shudder, and requests that he take it off.

Erik snorts.

Charles meets his eyes, shadowed as they are by that _ridiculous_ abberration, and speaks softly. “There are children here, Erik, children whom I would happily die to protect. If you do not remove it, I will ensure that you leave, and although I will not stop you from returning, I _will_ ensure you can never harm any of them.”

Erik blinks. “Charles, I...”

“Erik. I _love_ you. I forgive you. But I do not trust you.”

Erik blinks, and seems to melt into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he arrived.

The next time they meet, it is in a park, and there is a chessboard, and Erik does not wear the helmet.

_VI_

The thing about scars, is that they heal.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys... I don't know how this happened. Sorry for all the angst.  
> The quote is from Romeo and Juliet, said by Mercutio as he dies from a fatal wound.


End file.
